


Sweet Dreams

by Franzis_Frantic_Thoughts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sharing a Bed, and hard-ons, but nothing graphic, mentions of wanking, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4851026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzis_Frantic_Thoughts/pseuds/Franzis_Frantic_Thoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock turns his room into a Bio-Hazard and has to share John's bed for the time being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in the depths of my hard drive and polished it up a bit. It's short but cute and not really compatible with any time in the Series Canon.
> 
> Also English isn't my native language but I did my best. Drop me a line if you found any mistakes or would be interested in beta-ing.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr if you want!

_After a blissful minute our lips separated. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” I whispered. My lips brushed his once more. “Sweet dreams, John.” Came the soft reply through the semi-darkness and I felt myself being pulled into yet another gentle and simultaneously strong and protective embrace._

* * *

 

It had all started, as usual, with one of his stupid experiments about two weeks ago.

When I had entered the flat after an exhausting day at the clinic, my nerves already raw from the long day, I had been more than just a bit annoyed to find Sherlock at the kitchen table working with, which I took to be, highly dangerous and toxic chemicals that were completely inappropriate in a kitchen. I am ashamed to admit that I had lost my temper and yelled at him a good deal, something I had never done before, telling him it was rather stupid to bring these types of chemicals to the place where we were keeping the food and… well. It hadn’t been pretty. And when I had calmed down half an hour and a cup of tea later I had apologized for screaming, though I made it clear that I was still pissed with him.  
Due to my obvious, and rational, anger Sherlock had, for once, not argued but had picked his experiment up (including the kitchen table, we’ve been eating at the coffee-table ever since) and carried it with my aid to his bedroom. About an hour later what I had hoped to avoid had happened: The whole mess had blown up, setting toxic fumes free and knocking Sherlock unconscious. Not wanting my friend to suffocate, though it wasn’t like I hadn’t warned him, I had dashed into his room and pulled him out.              
To my relief Sherlock had recovered rather quickly and, after explaining the cause of the explosion, he had finally said that his bedroom was now a bio-hazard zone, which must, under no circumstances, be entered until the fumes had cleared. And since I foolishly had forgotten to open the windows, his words and I remember quite clearly that I had a strong urge to strangle him at those words, it was likely to stay that way for about a month. I had stared at him and was about to tell him that this was exactly why I didn’t like him experimenting at home, when he had continued to say, in his usual unabashed way, that he would from now on be sharing my bedroom, since there was no way he would be staying on the couch for a whole month. I had gaped even more at that, words failing me.

However in retrospect, sharing a room, and therefore a bed, since there wasn’t enough space for another one, with Sherlock, hadn’t been as bad as I had expected. Of course he slept little, so for the first 3 days I had still slept alone, but on the fourth night after the accident I had found Sherlock already fast asleep in my bed when I had entered the room around 11pm after a very unsuccessful (and frankly quite horrible) date.               
Sighing, but smiling slightly at the unusually peaceful sight, I had grabbed a pair of sweatpants and an old shirt and went to the bathroom to change into my make-shift pyjamas. Only to discover five minutes later, that Sherlock slept only in pyjama bottoms, his chest bare. Deciding to keep my distance, I had curled up on the far side of the bed. Despite the unfamiliar presence in my bed I had not felt too uncomfortable and had fallen asleep quite soon.   
The next morning I had opened my eyes sleepily to discover that during the night Sherlock and I had both shuffled further to the middle of the bed. We had been facing each other, or rather I had been facing his lean, white chest, with my head tucked beneath his chin and one of his long arms placed lightly around my waist.               
Blushing furiously, I had unwound myself from the embrace, trying not to wake Sherlock, and had gotten up, heading to the bathroom to deal with a certain situation that occurred during some mornings. While wanking in the shower I had tried to tell myself that my arousal had nothing to do with Sherlock, but with the long time of unwanted abstinence. It had been quite some time since I had had a successful date.            
Once I had dealt with the situation and the warm water had washed away any traces of my actions, my thoughts had started to drift. After a couple of minutes under the hot water I had realized that I had slept through the night; something that had not happened since I had come back from Afghanistan. Not even in the nights which marked the end of an exceptionally straining case. Even then I awoke at some point, drenched in cold sweat and shivering from the night terrors. But not that night…

I had decided not to say anything to Sherlock when he joined me at breakfast half an hour later, even though I had noticed that his morning shower too took longer than usual...     
But as the week passed, there had been more mornings on which I had found myself cuddled close to Sherlock’s surprisingly warm chest with a comforting weight of an arm slung around my waist. There had been more nights I had spent in a deep, peaceful sleep. And there had been more mornings than usual that I had to take a longer shower than strictly necessary for getting clean. I stopped trying to tell myself that it had nothing to do with Sherlock. I had known for a long time, since before the army even, that I wasn’t completely straight. But I had never acted on my attraction to another man. But then, I had never been so physically and emotionally attracted to another man, as I was to Sherlock. Maybe, something good would come out of the unfortunate situation of Sherlock’s bedroom, after all.

Then, about ten days after the explosion, we had started a new case and the high spirits, in which I had been due to the recent nights of good sleep, dropped immediately, for a case meant Sherlock would not sleep, and therefore, I had feared, neither would I. I had become so accustomed to Sherlock’s presence in my bed, and the absence of nightmares, that the prospect of missing the first and regaining the second made me positively dread going to bed.   
You can imagine my surprise when I had entered my bedroom late at night after an exhausting chase through London, to Sherlock’s great annoyance the culprit had managed and the case remained open, just to be joined by the detective in question a few minutes later.     
He had thrown me a look which definitely meant to say that I was not allowed to question this behavior and had gotten in on ‘his side’ of the bed, lying close to the middle from the start. “Goodnight, John.” Sherlock had murmured, and I remember having felt his breath ruffle my hair lightly, since I too had chosen to lie closer to him that night. My ‘Night, Sherlock’ had been muttered just as quietly.       
A few minutes later, I had already been half asleep; I had felt a light, warm pressure on my forehead. My sleepy brain had needed a few minutes to conclude that it had most probably been Sherlock’s lips. At that moment I should have realized that our relationship had changed, for I had not pulled away in shock, but smiled softly and cuddled closer without really thinking about it.               
The next night Sherlock’s lips had made contact with my temple. Not only had the location of the gesture, but also its timing had changed. There was no way Sherlock could have thought me asleep at that point; which could only mean he wanted me to know about the kiss. My reply had been an instinctive, soft sigh; I had felt Sherlock’s arm tighten around my waist in return.  
The night after that, Sherlock had softly kissed me on the cheek right after I had closed my eyes. Before I had even had the chance to wish him a goodnight. I had chosen to reply by nuzzling my face into Sherlock’s slender neck and taking a calming breath of his warm scent before muttering the words against his skin. I couldn’t bring myself to muster up the courage and return the gesture. But I had to, soon. I couldn’t let Sherlock continue this one-sided show of affection.                
The following night had been spent observing a potential hiding-place of the suspect and therefore included no sleep or displays of affection for either of us.        
However, when we had finally climbed into bed at 6 o’clock in the morning, tired, yet satisfied with the night’s work, Sherlock had pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth and, for the first time, I had replied by kissing him shyly on the jaw. I could have sworn I had felt him relax completely before he had pulled me closer.

That had been this morning. I had gone to work at two in the afternoon with Sherlock still asleep upstairs.

Now it was eleven pm and with the exhaustion of the case still in my bones I ached to go to bed, yet the seemingly inevitable conversation I needed to have with Sherlock before that blocked my progress upstairs like the figurative elephant in the room.     
Sighing, I drained the last sip of cold tea from my cup and shut my computer down, deciding to finish the blog entry about that week’s case the next morning. I took my cup to the kitchen and put it into the sink, leaning against the counter and taking a couple of deep breaths. I was still trying to come up with a way to approach the subject without scaring Sherlock off, or worse offending him, when the task of initiating the conversation was taken from me: “Are you coming to bed?” Sherlock posed the question as evenly as if he’d stated it innumerous times before. I agreed with a quiet hum and turned my back on the kitchen. For once Sherlock did not rush ahead, and simply expected me to follow, which, to be fair, I always did and would have done in this situation as well, but waited for me at the bottom of the stairs, his left hand slightly extended.            
Maybe the conversation was not as necessary as I had thought it was, for my fingers slipped easily between his and when we, once again, lay in bed next to each other, I brought my hand up to Sherlock’s face and pulled him closer for a soft kiss which felt more natural than any I had ever given or received before.     
After a blissful minute our lips separated. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” I whispered, my lips brushing his once more. “Sweet dreams, John.” Came the soft reply through the semi-darkness and I felt myself being pulled into yet another gentle,  yet simultaneously strong and protective embrace.

* * *

 

When I saw Sherlock emerging from his bedroom the next afternoon, I frowned and asked him what had happened to the not-to-be-entered bio-hazard zone, after all, barely half of the month had passed. Without embarrassment, but with a fair bit of smugness, Sherlock asked me, if I had really thought him careless enough to work with something that dangerous and messing up. My first instinct was to agree and tell him in no uncertain terms that he messed up more often than he would admit, but then I realized what he was hinting at. Accident my arse. But before I had the chance to feel cheated, get angry or start fearing that this was just another one of his experiments Sherlock leaned down and brought his lips to mine and I just couldn’t bring myself to be angry at him for fooling me.


End file.
